


cleanse

by julesmpm



Series: the dawn [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I can't stop writing for these two, Post-Battle of Winterfell, at least for now, recovering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 12:51:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18660793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julesmpm/pseuds/julesmpm
Summary: He doesn’t feel like the same man, either.He can’t imagine how she feels.(or the second step to recovering is to cleanse)





	cleanse

**Author's Note:**

> We're back, baby!
> 
> I wasn't lying when I said that I couldn't stop writing about these two, so I think I'm going to keep writing about the moments post-battle.
> 
> Man oh man, I hope there's no time jump in the next episode! Give us that good ol' reunion!

She audibly hisses as her flesh hits the hot water, and he wants nothing more than to pull her back into his arms and let her linger in her filth for a while longer. But Arya has always been insistent, and she is more than determined to cleanse her body of the grime the battle has left behind, and he knows that any attempts to stop her will be absolutely futile.

So he sits on a stool at the edge of the tub, arms at the ready to catch her if her body decides that enough is enough.

Slowly, steadily, she lowers herself into the bathwater. He watches as the steam rises and envelopes her body, creating a misty barrier between them that he doesn’t dare to break.

It’s difficult to look at her body, despite the fact that it was the same that lay atop his only hours previously. It doesn’t feel like the same body.

He doesn’t feel like the same man, either.

He can’t imagine how she feels.

He’d had to hold back the nausea that overcame him as he watched her undress, unveiling the extent of her topical injuries to him for the first time. Sure, he’s seen his share of deep, gory cuts and blackening bruises, but seeing Arya’s body littered with fresh wounds that he knows are going to heal to match the scars on her torso makes him almost dizzy.

She noticed his face immediately, of course, and scrunched her nose in indignation.

“There’s no need for any of that.” Her words were firm, albeit husky as a result of the Night King’s near-fatal grasp of her throat. “I’m here. I survived. I’m alright.”

She closed the distance between them with the last word, her naked frame almost as close to his as it was before the battle began. Both of her hands lifted to frame his face, and he saw the ghost of a smile play at her lips.

“You’re alright, too.” Her thumbs traced his cheekbones with a touch as light as a feather, and she pressed her lips to his as an act of punctuation for her statement. 

If he closed his eyes in that moment, he could hold her lips at the forefront of his mind.

But he saw the slight limp that takes her over to the bathtub, heard the sharp intake of breath when she tried to move too quickly, and even steadied her when she swayed dangerously to one side.

The nausea hasn’t gone away, not completely.

He’s not sure it ever will.

He watches as she reaches for the washrag on the edge of the tub, sees her face tense in pain from the movement, and he’s immediately up, moving to get the rag himself. She opens her mouth to speak but he does before she can make any action to protest.

“Let me take care of you.” His voice is soft, much softer than he ever thought he’d ever be with her, and when he looks back at her, her eyes have softened too. 

He wants to tell her that she doesn’t need to be the strong one anymore, at least not for now. He wants to let her know that it’s safe for her to let her guard down, that he can and will protect her for as long as she needs it.

He wants her to know that he will be around, as long as she’ll have him, as long as she needs.

But he also knows that it isn’t what she wants or needs to hear.

So when she doesn’t respond, he settles for moving to back towards the end of the tub where her head sits and ever so delicately beginning to rub her shoulders with the rag. 

She doesn’t move, sits completely motionless as he pulls the rag in patterns along her back, methodically dipping it into the bathwater as it pulls the grime from her skin. He moves from her shoulders to her spine to her upper arms, watching as her skin becomes cleaner, paler. He’s a craftsman, intent on making sure that his work is as pristine as he can possibly make it.

It’s only when he makes his way to the front of her body that he notices the tears falling down silently from her chin into the bathwater.

Oh, Arya.

He doesn’t want to acknowledge her tears, knows that the action of facing her vulnerability will just upset her more.

So he continues with his work, moving the rag up to her forehead where a great purple bruise has already begun to blossom. He works his way around the laceration, wiping away the blood until only the gash remains. This one’ll leave a scar, he can tell. 

He finds himself hoping that she’ll never consider it to take away from how beautiful she is.

“Gendry?” Her voice brings him out of his trance, and he realizes he’s been looking at her forehead longer than he’s lingered on anything previously. His eyes shift down to meet hers, and he can see that they’re still shining from the tears she had let fall.

He has a sudden yearning to get into the tub, fully clothed, and envelope her in his arms.

Oh, he’s done for.

He’s in love.

He moves the wash rag down her cheek, over her chin, and hesitates.

He hasn’t touched the mark that the Night King left on her neck since he found her in the Godswood.

For the first time, he’s suddenly aware of the warm liquid seeping down his cheeks, hitting her shoulders. He’s mostly made aware by her hand, slightly shaking, reaching up and brushing the tears from his chin.

Her hand travels from there down the length of his arm and joins his that is resting just before the bruising begins.

Slowly, carefully, she guides his hand into the damaged area, directing it and forcing it to continue even when she inhales sharply.

They clean her wound together, hands quivering but strong united.

And when it’s done, he lets himself fall to his knees beside the tub, leveling their heights so that their eyes can meet without effort. 

She reaches over the edge of the tub and pulls him into her, so that his head is resting on her shoulder and her arms are wrapped around him. They’re as close as they can be with the tub as a barrier, and he lets himself inhale, exhale, regulate his breathing for what seems like the millionth time of the night.

Tomorrow, they will be strong.

**Author's Note:**

> xoxo


End file.
